


Everything Tastes Better On Your Tongue

by zoomzoomzuppa



Category: Actor RPF, Irish Actor RPF, Scottish Actor RPF, X-Men RPF
Genre: Cigarettes, In Between Takes, M/M, Smoking Cigs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-11 02:57:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoomzoomzuppa/pseuds/zoomzoomzuppa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James is outside for a smoke break and Michael decides it's necessary he join.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything Tastes Better On Your Tongue

“Oi!”   
  
James starts a bit. Michael appears with a shout, heralded by the swinging clatter of a trailer door, nearly causing James to drop his cigarette. “Oi yourself mate. Can’t a man smoke a fag in peace?” The limp stick dangles between his lips just after he says it, dancing against his smile, unlit.   
  
“Depends on if he’s got a spare.” Michael’s all teeth – literally, his face stretches halfway round in a smile to make room for them – and skids to a stop just a few inches short of James. The shorter of the two men lets his teeth graze a bit at the paper’s thin edge, tongue licking the filter as his smile deepens.   
  
“I’m on my last,” he starts, and Michael looks for all the world like someone took him to a candy store and left him there with no money while under the supervision of a candy-Nazi. James takes a second, amused at how emotionally scarring not getting the daily subscribed actor-intake of nicotine is for Michael, before plucking the offender from his lips. “But I’ll share it with you.”   
  
Michael’s face lights up. “I could kiss you, mate,” and he’s staring at James’ lips as he says it, before his eyes skitter across to the cigarette wobbling delicately between James’ index and middle finger. He licks at his own lips as though the taste of the exhalation of smoke is already there before it’s all begun.   
  
“You talking to me or the fag, Michael?” James is still too amused and still holding the cigarette somewhere that still isn’t in Michael’s mouth, so instead of answering, Michael licks his lips again and stares at James; hard, intense, all actor-heat and lustful, an alpha lion ready to rut against its sexual prey in a maniac desire to dominant.   
  
James snorts in the back of his throat, sputters a laugh before collapsing against the wall.   
  
“Fookin’ Christ man, take it, take it already!” The cigarette is passed between them, a baton of compassion and  _please-don’t-ever-try-that-nonsense-again_ , James still riding out the fit of giggles Michael has caused. Hands pat desperately over pockets and chest (because it always makes sense to pat down one’s chest in pursuit of a lighter, especially if said shirt has no breast pockets) before Michael realizes just how despicably unprepared for this glorious turn of events he is.   
  
“Oi, Jamesy, you got a -” he turns to look at James who has not only overcome his laughter, but is standing there, lighter producing an acutely perfect flickering of a flame, cupped over by a creamy white hand to prevent the gentle breeze from scaring it away. “I may actually kiss you,” Michael threatens again, dips down to let the edge of the cigarette burn and rot away against the fire, and swims back up amid a cloud of smoke.   
  
“Promises, promises, Fassbender.” James slinks his hand back and forth, airing away Michael’s exhale.   
  
“Oh don’t worry James; I’m a man of my word.”   
  
James waves him off again, eyes drawn to the dark sky for a moment. He listens as Michael inhales again, the softest pressure of lips on butt, that moist exposure of tongue letting a popping noise echo in the silence. A nudge at James’ shoulder alerts him to what Michael is offering him – his cigarette back – and he takes it delicately, inhales slowly, dragging out each curling fill of smoke in his lungs as though he’ll have to stop breathing after.  
  
“Jaysus, watching you smoke is like watching poetry.”

 

James lets out a coughing laugh, smoke spilling out in soft bursts. “First you stare at me like I’m some French maid in a revealing outfit waiting to be taken advantage of, then you tell me I’m poetry in motion?” Michael taps the toe of his boot against James’ shin, a weak attempt at payback for the insinuation.   
  
“I’m just sayin’. You’re one of those guys that could make smokin’ look good to anyone. Bad influence is what you are.”   
  
“Am I? Does that mean you’ll be too caught up lookin’ at me smokin’ to want another drag?” James’ lips are upturned, joking almost as much as he means it to seem, his fingers tapping away the excess ash of his cigarette. Embers drip down, fizzle away against the concrete, and Michael watches it for a moment, chuckling at a private joke with himself.   
  
“Not on your life McAvoy, you promised we’d share.” He reaches for the cigarette, the Promised Land that’s dangling between James’ pouty, cherry lips.   
  
“Who’s to say I’m a man of my word?” James takes a long pull, the edge burnt down to the halfway point. Michael wiggles and scrunches his fingers, making grabby motions for his life line, eyes pleading, lips in an endearing pout. A huff a sigh relieves James’ lips of the cigarette, his smoke smearing its way to Michael’s eyes, the tiny cancer stick spearing through the plume of exhale. Michael’s lips spread in a gleeful smile.   
  
“You’re getting closer and closer to that kiss, sir,” Michael praises, hungrily takes the cigarette to his lips in a long drag. A contented sigh expels the air from his lungs and James laughs again, the high of a cigarette swimming in his head.  
  
“I’m starting to think you’re just teasing me into giving you my last cigarette and that you won’t make good on-”  
  
James had only really been teasing in return – at least, that’s what he was telling himself – when his exposed tongue was overwhelmed by another, warm and wet and dirty, the remnants of smoking a film over the tip. A muffled little noise squeaked at the back of James’ throat, eyes wide as he stared at the man who seemed wholly intent on keeping his tongue inside James’ mouth. After a few seconds of being incapable of a response, James felt Michael starting to withdraw, licking its way back into Michael’s domain. Just as the tip of Michael’s tongue was making its way over James’ lips, a lick up and between them, James pushed forward, hungry, feasting, drawing Michael back in.  
  
Michael let out a grunt of a nose, kept one hand on the side of James’ face and the other on James’ shoulder, let the cigarette smolder away at its own pace between his fingers. The rugged stubble on Michael’s face was rough and stinging, an addendum to the bruising intensity of the kiss. James’ hands were buried in Michael’s hair, neck craning to keep up to the speed of the kiss, mewls coming from the back of his throat with each popping smack of their lips.   
  
Eventually, and probably due to the fact that the two of them were chimneys and could barely run before bursting into coughing fits, they broke apart, gasping, looking for all the air they could take into their lungs.   
  
“I told you; I’m a man of my word Jamesy.” Michael’s smiling all teeth again, predatory and yet searching. He wheels up and back, offering the pilfered, near-death cigarette to James, who gives it a look of curiosity, then waves at it dismissively.

 

“Kill it.”   
  
Michael’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, but he does as he’s told, sucking whatever life is left of the cigarette down and into him. Eyes shut, reveling in the taste of the last puff off a smoke, Michael tilts his head back and lets out a soft breath, the remnants of their shared cigarette drifting up to the night sky. When he opens his eyes a split second later, James is watching him; waiting for that last hint of smoke is done lilting its way from Michael’s lips. For a second neither of them move, watching, taking in the remaining seconds of the bond shared over a cigarette.   
  
“Thanks,” Michael says, features turning soft under James’ inquisitive stare. James lifts up, on his toes, which Michael finds cute because James really is too short to be a real man sometimes (usually that’s said out loud, and followed by a hit from whoever is nearest him, fighting on James’ behalf) and Michael continues to think that until James’ fingers are on the back of his neck, angling Michael’s head down, parting Michael’s lips with a nudge of the tip of his nose which Michael again finds too cute and endearing because yeah, James really isn’t a guy, he’s too pretty, and does too many coy, shy things like this in back-alleys at night during cigarette breaks.   
  
James lifts his head back, straining his neck, on his toes again, licking the edges of Michael’s dry lips, dips his tongue inside apex of where the lips meet, running gently over the ridges of his teeth, diving down into the warm heat of Michael’s mouth with a satisfied groan. Michael can’t help the way he cradles James’ waist, can’t help the way he pulls James impossibly close and moans a deep agreement with everything James’ tongue is doing to his.   
  
Fingers are at the base of neck, dipping down the collar of his shirt and over the bumps of his spine before back up and into his hair, tugging him harder, against James’ teeth and breathy gasps and whimpers and James keeps licking his way further in Michael’s mouth as if chasing something that only Michael’s mouth possessed, wanting to be ever closer to whatever it was that was driving the Scotsman mad with desire. Michael’s fingers flex over James’ ribs, pressing and tight, and James nips at Michael’s bottom lip, causing him to puff out an overzealous breath of lust from his lungs. For some reason that drives James wild, curling something inside to the point that James is trying to get inside of Michael somehow.  
  
The kiss grows filthy, heavier, and Michael obliges James’ head tilt with one of his own, each stab of a tongue or brush of teeth a move in this game of make-out chess and Michael has to admit, James might be winning, and then,  
  
 _Pop._  
  
James pulls off with a wet snap of his neck, a string of saliva hanging between them that he actually slurps up and then dribbles off over his knuckles in haste to make it disappear.  
  
“Thanks,” he mutters, smiling as if Michael had just done him some magical justice.   
  
“…What now?” Michael asks, sets his eyes on the remnants of the cigarette, now dead but still somehow smoking, and smashes it under his foot. James offers him a smile.   
  
“For that,” he leans up and brushes against Michael’s ear; “you know how much I love the way you taste mixed with cigarettes.” James nuzzles the soft skin under Michael’s earlobe, tantalizes the dangling flesh with a bite. “Next time though, don’t lie about not having cigarettes.”   
  
James’ fingers dip down into Michael’s back pocket, pulls out a half-full pack of Camels and snags one, twirling it between his fingers before lighting it. He takes a long pull, grins, and exhales through his nose.   
  
“Want to share?”   
  
Michael smiled and leaned in, hovering over James’ lips. “Sharing  _is_  caring.”


End file.
